


O Mistress Mine

by dorothy_notgale



Series: To Die as Lovers May [1]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: F/F, F/M, Lestat is a creep, Rule 63, cis-swap, meet cute, pre-turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:19:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothy_notgale/pseuds/dorothy_notgale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While enjoying the wonders of a savage New World town, Lestat's eye is caught by a woman courting death. How can she<br/>possibly resist such a succulent invitation?<br/>(Cis-swapped reworking of the alley scene.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Mistress Mine

At first glance, the woman appeared to be a shockingly lovely whore leaning drunkenly against her client, a young riverboat worker of some stripe. Sleek black hair fell, disheveled, from its twist to trail upon rounded shoulders, teasing and suggestive. His hands took liberties without familiarity, touching because they could but not where a lover would have learned.

But though she wore neither rings nor necklace, and the miser's purse hanging from her waist contained only a few jingling coins, it was the little things that revealed her: the small embroidered satin heels daintily navigating the mud- and shit-strewn streets and avoiding the puddles; her pink-and-green gown of the very lightest cotton over an equally fine-woven chemise, all so thin as to be transparent when she moved past the illumination of one of the town's filthy taverns. A Silhouette, so they'd called such a picture in Paris, and what a picture it was.

Lestat counted herself fortunate that it was summer in this swampland, air hot and wet as breath itself caressing that voluptuous form and making impractical even the lace shawl she carried bunched over one bare arm.

The whores must hate her, this rich beauty, and who could blame them? She most certainly threatened their trade.

And so Lestat discarded her unsmoked cheroot and leapt from the balcony of the Cheval Noir tavern to an adjacent building, sending a few roofing tiles loose to clatter below unremarked. The woman was worth following, at least for a night.

To better aid her hunt, she opened her mind; one or the other of the pair must be a deserving, evildoing victim, and she need only learn which--

and then, _oh,_ the sweet lance of pain and loss she felt at the touch of the beauty's soul was nearly a match for the stirring she felt at that flawless form.

Aching, pulsing, the anguish in her, transforming her from merely pretty into a portrait of tragedy. Too pure, by far, for the work-roughened hands guiding her into a back alley lit by smoky lanterns and moonlight.

There they were sheltered from the sight of humans, but not from Lestat's preternatural vision.

“What's your name?” the man asked, hands on her full hips, staring not at her perfect, despair-sharpened features but at her breasts, round above the top of her stays.

“Louisa,” she murmured in a voice like the bell of a desecrated church. The stars caught in her eyes, greener than the bayous and fields.

So alive, and so in love with death; this would be a social suicide, if not more. If the man didn't have done with her by the end of it, slit her throat and leave her there like so much meat.

Her flesh sparkled lightly with sweat as he buried his awestruck face in her cleavage, muttering about his luck. _Lucky,_ as he was the instrument of her self-destruction, as he fisted yards of finest cotton and wound it up to grasp the pale fine-haired thigh above the stocking and pull her tight.

No gentleman, he; in life, Lestat would have done him better a thousand times over by kneeling in that unidentifiable muck and giving sweet Louisa a new reason to live.

Louisa, long leg hooked up and soft shoulders pressed to unforgiving brick, gave a slight, pained, needful cry when he pierced her, white hands clutching his broad shoulders. Not violent, but implacable, his rhythm; careless, as he spoke approvingly of her virginal tightness (wrong _and_ inept, taking joy in her unpreparedness.) Her slipper and shawl fell to the ground while he spent minutes reveling in her too-good mortal body, no concept of the matching shattered perfection of her spirit.

Such sorrow, driven to frenzy and unfulfilled after he grunted and filled her with seed of the life she abhorred.

He fell insensate (and who could blame him?) and Louisa fell too, skin tearing on the brick and releasing the scent of her blood, and there was no more resisting it.

Lestat alighted silently and stalked up, knowing what a sight she was in her breeches and coat, her hair and her cravat. Knowing the pink flush high on those cheeks and bosom was partly alcohol, partly shame, partly thwarted need, and at least a little (please, just a little) at the sight of _her,_ some strange dream of desire.

“Angel--” Louisa gasped, fingers tangling in the golden cloud of Lestat’s hair. And her neck shone so long and white, a great unbroken expanse above the drawstring top of her dress just begging for Lestat's bite.

Still spread, the legs, still wet with a need the woman didn't even understand, scent rising in the humid night.

So thin was the dress that Lestat could see the nipples harden beneath when she ran icy fingers along the top of a stocking, up the thigh. So easy to dare a tiny caress to that befouled sweetness before kissing surprised, parted lips red like cherries over straight white teeth.

“Shh, ma belle,” she whispered. “You'll get your little death yet.”

She undid the ties of the dress and tore the stays to let Louisa's breasts fall free, there for her to touch and tease and feel gooseflesh form at her coldness. The scent of blood, the drops that transferred to her fingers and then to her mouth when mere tweaking was not enough, inflamed her in concert with her victim's confused cries.

And then she fastened her teeth to Louisa's beautiful blue-veined throat, and was lost.


End file.
